With our introductions out of the way, Magnolia passes me one of the many cups she and Callista returned with. I take a long pull from the straw, letting my tastebuds revel in the cool, toffee-coffee goodness.
Myla Rose finishes up her client and flips the sign to “closed” once she leaves. “Now, let’s talk about what you’ve been up to.”
Azalea smirks. “You know, other than ghosting us.”
Guilt prickles again, but I push it to the back burner and fill my friends in on the disaster-zone that is my life.
“Uh, well, I sold Dad’s shop.”
“What? Why? To who?” Myla Rose demands, rapid-fire.
“It’s a long story.” I fidget in my seat under the weight of their stares. “But Mateo bought it.”
“Reyes? Mateo Reyes?” Magnolia asks.
“Yup. And he hired me, to you know, help out and stuff.”
“And stuff, huh?” Azalea asks as she wags her brows, infusing the moment with some much-needed humor.
We talk a little more, and I learn Callista recently moved to Dogwood for a fresh start. She’s a single mom to toddler-aged twins, a recent divorcee, and was in the middle of cosmetology school when her ex-husband walked out. So she’s basically perfect for them.
Once all of our catching up is out of the way, Magnolia guides me to her chair. “What are we doing with your hair?”
I shrug and give her carte blanche. Four hours later, I walk out with subtle caramel highlights and about six inches off the ends, leaving it level with my breasts.
They say a woman who cuts her hair is about to change her life—here’s to hoping like hell that’s true.Chapter TenMateo“Are we really going to keep doing this?” Seraphine asks, wiping the sweat from her brow while simultaneously trying to kill me with her glare alone.
“Sí.” I lean back against the steel cabinet.
She’s so over my little quizzes that she’s practically snarling at me. But I don’t care. I need to know if she grew up around cars, or if she actually knows cars before we open and I truly put her to work.
Which is why ten of the last fourteen days have been spent cataloging every item in the garage to get ready for the relaunch. I won’t lie—she seems to know her stuff. But I need to be sure before I turn her loose in here.
“Fine,” she grits out, nodding her head toward her dad’s—I mean my—‘Cuda. “That beautiful beast is one of only six-hundred-and-fifty-two produced that year. It’s got a 440-six pack with an aluminum Edelbrock manifold topped by three 2300 series carb. A lot of people wanted the 426 Hemi, but the automatic 440 was actually faster.”
Seraphine shrugs like she didn’t just make my dick hard spouting off classic car facts like some kind of sexy, tan-skinned encyclopedia. A groan rumbles up from my chest as I stare at her. She’s dressed down in those godforsaken bootie shorts and a hoodie—and yet, the combo is hotter than any lingerie on the market. She’s a clueless seductress—tempting me without even meaning to.
“Anything else you want, sir?” The little bite of sass she adds at the end of her sentence only makes me want her more. She’s young and wild and bratty, and I’d love nothing more than to take her over my knee and show her exactly what else I want.
“No, you’re good.”
“Great.” She flips her head forward and gathers her hair into a messy ponytail and secures it with an elastic from her wrist before plopping down onto the bench. “When are we opening to the public?”
I cross the shop and take a seat next to her. “I’d say we got about two weeks left on the reno, then soft launch for the mechanical side of things and maybe a month on the resto.”
“Reno?” She whips her entire body around to face me so that she’s straddling the bench. “How could you? You’re just going to destroy—we never talked about a renovation!”
“Calm down, mariposita.”
After those two dreaded words, Seraphine’s practically shooting laser beams out of her eyes. “Adding that stupid nickname doesn’t negate you telling me to calm down, asshole.”
I can’t help but grin at her self-righteous anger. “I know there is a lot of sentimental value here for you. I need you to trust me to do what is best for the business in a way that will still honor your father. He worked hard and was good at his craft. I do not wish to erase that. I merely want to bring the shop up to date, okay?”
Looking properly chastised, she nods and whispers, “Okay.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She nibbles on her lip. “I trust you.”
The way her moods yo-yo is enough to make me feel dizzy, but I know it’s because she’s still hurting—that the loss of her father is still a raw, gaping wound. She needs to heal, and I am determined to help her.